


The Perfect Compromise

by starcunning (Vannevar)



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Gen, Reasonable Fulgrim's Diplomatic Compliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:46:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vannevar/pseuds/starcunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Emperor's Children have come to Catalonia to bring it into the fold of the Imperium. Pressure from the Adeptus Mechanicus has dissuaded them from the usual sort of ensuring compliance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Compromise

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Идеальный компромисс](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582432) by [Alre_Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alre_Snow/pseuds/Alre_Snow)



> Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.
> 
> —M. Gramm, Terra, M2

The arrival of the Expedition eclipsed all else in Catalonia's long memory. The strangers' violet behemoths dwarfed their voidcraft. The image showed on every newscast for days. Eliana Ashpool watched the footage over and over. The knifelike prows of the foreign ships glittered gold in the sunlight. The world held its breath, and scrambled its military might. Just in case.

The ships, it was soon revealed, carried giants. After that, no one was so eager to go to war. Catalonia was a learned world. Its people knew something of genecraft, but the bellicose men of iron that orbited the planet were as intimidating as they were beautiful. Their commander was most beautiful of all. His name was Fulgrim, and he would determine the fate of Catalonia.

They were called the Emperor's Children, emissaries of some still greater power. In the weeks that followed, the Catalonian generals entered into negotiations. Catalonia was a fiercely proud planet, with no desire to bow to some unseen dynast. However, the strangers seemed reluctant to bomb them into submission. It seemed their expertise in genecraft was of some interest, and the children of the Emperor feared its loss.

Eliana had considered giving up on her training when those new stars came into orbit—what use the Games now? Sure enough their suspension was announced in the the weeks following, but still she rose with the sun to exercise. She spent her days on the practice piste with her coach and a bevy of opponents—mechanical and human. It was as though nothing had changed. Her routine was interrupted only rarely by interviews and a publicity appearance for OmniBars. Her celebrity had waned with the Games' suspension. Swordplay was all but outmoded, good only for entertainment. Catalonia had no appetite for spectacle now.

That had changed two months after the Emperor's Children arrived over Catalonia. Eliana had been swimming, as she often did in the evenings. The sound of footsteps carried over the gentle lap of waves against the stone walls of her pool. It was an annoyance: an unwelcome intrusion on a favorite ritual. She hauled herself up by ladder, water beading on her dusky skin, and readied to chastise the servant who had disturbed her peace. She wrapped a towel around her shoulder, hair bound up in a cap, and turned around. She felt the fury leech from her. Rather than one of her people, an officer of the Army stood before her. He wore ruby wool, trimmed in gold. Eliana stood up straighter and drew the towel down to wrap it about herself more modestly. Her dark eyes met his.

“Ma'am,” he said. She rankled at that, too young for  _ma'am_  even from the military. “I have a summons here for you.”  
“I've been exempted,” she said.  
“Not that summons,” he told her, and smiled a bit.  
“Oh,” she said, thinking of the giants in orbit, and felt relieved. “Then what is this about?” Eliana gestured for him to follow her. His boot heels echoed upon the slate. She perched at her wet bar and looked at him, expectant. A lieutenant, from the pips on his collar.  
“The Generals have reached an arrangement with the foreign fleet,” he told her. They were always  _the foreign fleet_ , in the news. She found that faintly ominous.  
“What does that have to do with me?” Eliana wondered.  
“You have been summoned to serve as a representative,” he said. She frowned in confusion. “I would tell you more if I knew more, but I have been instructed to give you this.” He reached into his jacket, then presented her with a cream-colored envelope. Eliana Ashpool smiled her bemusement.

After he left, she read the summons, lofty and formal, calling her from Quarren down to the amphitheater in the capital. She found herself smiling, a truer expression; a hope that there might be some manner of Games after all.

— — — — —

Her regimen, never lax, resumed it preparatory strictures. It was possible they wanted her to deliver a pretty speech and shake hands with the giants in orbit. It seemed likelier they wanted the use of her sword. Her life was ruled by schedule and routine devised by her trainers and coaches. She rose at their word, moved at their direction, ate at their signal. What she ate was similarly regimented; determined by her nutritionist and prepared by her staff. A half-dozen adjutants arrayed themselves around her like satellite moons. The refining of her gene-sculpted form occupied them all.

Eliana Ashpool had been an investment. Though she was the product of her parents' genes, they had been finessed, risk factors for disease and malady removed. That had been the right of any child born on Catalonia for nearly two centuries. In her case, the genetors had gone beyond that. Eliana had been built strong and hardy, her reflexes increased.  
She had been an only child; her parents could not have afforded another like her. She had attended a crèche where the other children were similarly made. They were athletes and geniuses, savants and extraordinary specimens all. She had never been lonely.

Her training with the blade had begun in her girlhood. Twenty years on, she was in a prime that science had found ways to extend…as long as she could pay for it. Her endorsement deal with OmniBars had secured her a few years more. The cancellation of the Games had threatened that future. Now this unknown summons. If she were to serve as some manner of representative for her world, Eliana decided, if she was to be called upon to face down these giants in their massive ships, the price would be as doughty as the task. Her cost was access to continuing rejuvenatory treatments.  
Eliana Ashpool was not ready for her star to wane.

— — — — —

She left Quarren by rail and rode down the coast. There was a pleasure in familiarity, and she had taken this ride a handful of times before. The heat was oppressive so close to the equator, even for her, who had been born there. It felt like her life was back on track as she entered the gilded amphitheater.  
It was cooler indoors, and she was surrounded by familiar faces—friends and rivals she had crossed swords with on the piste before. There was relief in that, to know her regimen had been a wise investment of her time. Some were strangers, but their close-cropped hair and tattooed cheeks bespoke a military bearing. They were brutes, thick with muscle. Eliana wondered if their ponderous motion would serve at all against the champions of the Emperor's Children.  
She doubted it.

The exhibitors sat in the stands, restless as schoolchildren. All of the pageantry of the cancelled Games hung shrouded overhead, ghosts of a future not to be.

The Generals came in file, a dozen of them in different shades of the same uniform. Their cheeks were painted with declarations of war. Resistance and refusal shone bright over their tattoos of office, and Eliana shivered. She was meant to be exempt.  
It was Chamberlain Marta Corfax who spoke, her voice echoing across the assembly.  
“The foreign fleet does not wish to bring war to Catalonia,” she said. Her speech was as blunt as a hammer blow; it was one of her hallmarks as an officer. “Even so, it comes with them. We have engineered a new shape to this conflict; our battles will be fought in a different form than in times past. These men, these children of their Emperor, have agreed to leave Catalonia in peace if we can find a champion to best their chosen. From the greatest examples of our already great world we have called you to the field. In the weeks to come, ten of you will be selected to represent us. We begin tomorrow.”

— — — — —

And so they did.  
The first day ended with several injuries, their bearers removed from the pool and sent home to recover. She fought three bouts that day, all against fellow exhibition sportsmen, male and female. She slept solidly in her hotel room and was given a day to recover with a masseuse and a trip to the gamemakers' pool for some light exercise. She received three offers for interviews but turned them down; there was no room in her schedule for that. Afterward, perhaps. The pattern continued—one day on the piste, the next off it. It was very much like the Games had been, and that was comforting. Eliana was sure if these bouts had been real, she'd have secured her laurel and her contract with OmniBars.  
Instead, all she won were bruises and advancements, her name written and rewritten in the lists. That was enough. She had her eye on more than laurels.

Attack. Deflect. Attack again. Retreat, draw them in.

The whole of Eliana's being existed between her shoulder and the tip of her sword. The safety gear anonymized them, but some styles she recognized and could adapt to. It was familiar. It was exhilarating. The stadium had been empty at first of all but her peers. The admirers had arrived not long after the interviewers. Every eye in the world was turned toward the amphitheater. It was exposure on a new level; even those who disdained the Games found this difficult to ignore. That week cost them still more bright faces, new to their celebrity and drunk on its heady privileges.  Then that celebrity paradoxically cost them those same opportunities as they, too, were disqualified for missed bouts.  
Every injury was a hammer blow, this late. They could not be expected to recover before they were shuttled into orbit.

That week Eliana fought her first military opponent. She relished the new experience, the new form of combat. His blows were doughty, rattling through her arm. But disarmament meant a forfeit and she dared not consider what a loss would mean, this late. Instead she made an advantage of her speed, darting away from his blows and letting his own momentum work against him. He tired slowly, but he did tire, and his sluggish reactions left him open to her counterattacks. She proved herself his better.

— — — — —

In the end, they chose Eliana, three other exhibitors, four career soldiers, and two members of the State's Swords—members of the guard kept on retainer for the rare request of trial by combat. She had expected more of these, though age was some small factor. Their adjutants—coaches, nutritionists, and one woman's wife—were brought along as well, in a separate craft.

Their destination was a ship called the  _Pride of the Emperor_. It was the largest single structure Eliana had ever seen.

The interior of the ship was as splendid as the exterior, and Eliana was struck by how wholly it owned that name. The giants had been arrayed to greet the Catalonia detachment. They stood, regimented, anonymized by the grilles of their helmets.

Eliana had never met anyone like them. She saw that she had underestimated their reach terribly, and a cold fear took hold in her for just an instant.

Then Fulgrim, master of the Emperor's Children, approached them to speak. Taller and grander than even the men he stood before, he was dressed not in armor but in resplendent robes of violet and gold, his silver hair swept back from his face. She expected a deep bass, and was surprised at his mellifluence.  
“Champions of Catalonia,” he addressed them, “you are the pride of your homeland, and I commend you for having come this far. The days ahead will not be easy, but they shall endure for ever in history. Before me, I see ten heroes. I look forward to watching you prove your mettle against my chosen.”  
He smiled and left them. Eliana realized her heart was racing, and she felt strange, disoriented; as though disconnected from her body.

— — — — —

Her stateroom was sumptuous, all dark woods and frescoes trimmed in old bronze. The bed was made to a much larger scale, but it was obvious the Emperor's Children were used to entertaining mortal guests.

One of the giants—he introduced himself as “Brother Anteros”—came to her that evening and offered his services.  
Eliana found she had only one question: “Where can I practice?”

The Emperor's Children, he informed her, had set aside one of their practice cages for the champions' use. It was several decks away, and as he took her there she saw many of the massive soldiers. They were not much shrunken without their armor, she noted, all of them as broad-featured and thick with muscle as her minder. A few of them eyed her as they passed, and made inquiries of their brother in a sibilant, foreign tongue.

“What was that?” she asked the behemoth as they entered a lift.  
“Chemosian,” he said, sounding amused. “It is my milk tongue.”  
Eliana nodded. “Chemos must be a fine place to have birthed such wonders as are carried aboard this ship.”  
Anteros laughed heartily, clapping one broad hand against her shoulder with staggering force. She barely kept her footing. “They didn't tell you anything, little heroine,” he said, disbelieving.  
“What should they have told me?” She had to look up and up to meet the legionary's dark eyes.  
His smile was full of pity. “They should have told you that no one expects you to win,” Anteros said.  
“All great histories begin that way,” said the swordfighter.  
The giant laughed. “They do,” he agreed, “but not this time. Lord Fulgrim respects your tenacity, and I do too, but you won't win.” Anteros ushered her out onto the deck. The hallway echoed with the muffled sounds of combat, and Eliana paused to peer into one of the cages as they passed. She smarted with indignation.  
“What's he like?” Eliana wondered. “Fulgrim,” she added a moment later.  
“ _Lord_  Fulgrim," he said as he herded her along, stressing the honorific, “is a man of learning and culture.” As they came to the cage, Anteros noted, “He is also a warrior without peer.”

The cage was much emptier than the one they had passed a moment earlier. The fencer from Tharac was trying his blade against a trio of mechanical things that whirlwinded around him.

“But I'm not fighting your Lord Fulgrim,” she pointed out, pinning up her hair and turning toward the weapon racks.  
Anteros was shaking his head as he drew up behind her. “And a good thing, too,” he said. “He might kill you by accident, little heroine. What frail things you are,” he said, something somber in his voice. “You're not much better off, though,” he added, absent-minded. When she turned to look at him he flashed a chagrinned expression.  
“Who?” she wanted to know. “Who am I to fight?”  
“I can't tell you,” Anteros said.

She took a short blade down and tossed it to him. Though it was as long as her arm, it looked like a dagger in his grasp. He glanced down, having caught it by reflex.  
“If I beat you, will you tell me?” she challenged.  
“And if I beat you?” wondered Anteros.  
Eliana shrugged. “Then claim a forfeit of your own choosing,” she said. “I have no idea what's of interest to giants.”  
He laughed. “I'll make an appointment with the magos biologis, that he might examine you.”  
"No you won't," Eliana said, turning toward the cages. Anteros followed her into the cage, his blunt features a mask of amusement.  
He overshadowed her almost completely, the stab lights overhead casting his face in menacing shadows. Eliana looked up into his dark eyes, set her balance, and lifted her sword.  
“In your time, little heroine,” he said.  
“My name is Eliana Ashpool,” she told him, setting her teeth.

She took a step forward, and his sword slammed hers aside, opening her guard. She backpedaled, her bounding steps carrying her out of Anteros’ reach. He charged her, unexpectedly fast for his size. She sprang aside, and the giant barreled on. he trampled one of the automatons the Tharaci champion had fought. It teetered, off-balance and shooting sparks.

Anteros came about quickly, unscathed by his crash, and soon he had her on her back foot, his blows coming with thunderous force. They jarred her bones and threatened her grasp on her weapon. Somehow, she managed to stand firm in the face of his onslaught. Anteros laughed, a fierce, guttural sound, and while he gloated, she rallied. One bound brought her into his reach, crouching. She sprang upward inside his guard, and the tip of her blade touched his flank, tearing at the violet cloth he wore.

He laughed again, but there was nothing mocking in it now. He cast the blade aside and smiled down at her.  
“Little heroine,” he said to her, pityingly. “Your lot was drawn against Julius Kaesoron.”  
Whatever reaction he wanted from her, he didn't get it. She only arched a brow as if in prompting.  
“Brother-Captain Kaesoron is First Captain,” he told her, inspecting the damage to his tunic. “A veteran of a hundred wars on a dozen worlds. You're not bad,” he said loftily, “but you are not the First Captain.”  
“Are you?” Eliana challenged. She lifted her sword to point at his discarded weapon. Her muscles were burning with effort.  
“No, mamzel,” he laughed.  
“Then pretend,” she said sternly.  
“You think I want to help you?” Anteros asked, disbelieving. “Why would I do that? We're enemies.”  
“I don't think we are,” Eliana said loftily. “What we are is  _opponents_.”  
Anteros laughed, settling one broad hand on Eliana's shoulder. “Are they all like you?” he wondered.  
“No,” said Eliana.  
“More's the pity. He'd like you.”  
“Captain Kaesoron?”  
“Lord Fulgrim,” Anteros said, turning away to take up the short blade. “Go get a buckler. I'm no First Captain either, but I've seen him fight. He'll appreciate a worthy opponent.”

They attracted eyes—Eliana's coach and personal physician first, then other Catalonian worthies. In time, each of them brought their minders, and the automata sat inert as mortals clashed with giants. She refused to duel with Anteros when his brothers milled about, lst they inform on her technique to Kaesoron. Instead at those times he would expound to her on the finer points of what he called “Astartes swordsmanship”.  
It was as much philosophy as technique, and she was surprised when at one point he told her that no world existed beyond the reach of his blade.  
“Shan Dotheen,” she said, blinking. “I read it when I was twelve.”  
It had been his turn to stare at her, dumbfounded. “What?”  
“The Shan sought a parity of spirit through his bladework,” Eliana said. “He treated it like a meditation. Everything that mattered lay between his shoulder and the tip of his sword. All else was meant to fall away,” she said, her dark eyes peering through the cages.  
He was quiet a long time. “Lord Fulgrim chose wisely,” Anteros said, like he was discussing the weather.  
“What do you mean?” she asked.  
“This arrangement,” he said. “If we could establish compliance here, without the cost in lives that usually comes with such an undertaking—and I mean Catalonian lives as much as my brothers'…we're not pacifists, Eliana, but it would have been a shame to damage so sophisticated a culture.”  
“This isn't what usually happens for you, is it,” she said. It wasn't a question.  
“No,” Anteros laughed. “More often we are called on to wage war in order to bring planets to heel.”  
“Unlovely, brutal work,” said Eliana.  
“And do you think we are unlovely and brutal?” he asked, amusement in his voice.  
“No! No, not at all,” she said quickly.  
“I'm not offended,” said Anteros. “Most Astartes are exactly that.”  
“Astartes?” she wondered. “Is that what you call yourselves?”  
“Yes,” he said. “An old name, a warlike name, but that's not all that we are. The Emperor's Children are artisans, artists. Lord Fulgrim has encouraged this, because peace will come, and when it does…”  
“Warriors without war,” she said softly.  
“Like you, Little Heroine,” Anteros murmured.  
“Not yet,” said the swordswoman, strapping a buckler into place.

— — — — —

Anteros pressed her harder than any opponent she had ever faced, and whatever fondness he displayed for her in the course of their conversations proved no impediment to him thrashing her in the cages. She had hoped he would tire, as her military opponents had tire, but his reserves of energy seemed bottomless. She was never able to use his inertia against him again, either. But she was learning with every bruise and cut, how to make war upon the Emperor's children. She could not turn his blows aside, but she learned the way his body betrayed his intention, and hoped Kaesoron telegraphed his movements. She learned to keep hold of her weapon even under punishing force. It was grueling, made worse by his unstinting nature. She weathered him like a relentless storm.

The last day before the bouts were to begin, he brought her to the Heliopolis. It was as massive as the arena in the capitol, bright with gold, ringed by thousands of tiered seats. A serf was raking the dirt floor. Mobilized cameras were milling about, along with a contingent of photographers dressed in Imperial fashion.

“Remembrancers,” he told her. “They're here to memorialize the occasion.”  
She nodded, and heard the click of a camera lens. “You still don't expect me to win, do you?”  
Anteros looked at her a long time. “Eliana,” he said softly. “You fight well, and I would be proud to think I have helped you to victory.”  
“That isn't a yes.”  
“It is not in me to hope to see my brothers defeated, nor the fleet to leave with our task undone. I think you might have it in you to best one of us. Not Captain Kaesoron. Not yet. But you are possessed of superlative skill. I have been pleased to know you.”  
She laughed. “You sound like you're expecting me to die.”  
“No,” said Anteros. “But I expect not to see much of you, tomorrow or afterward.”  
“Come by in the morning,” she said. “You can come with my team. You  _are_  my team.”  
“I can do that.”

— — — — —

Hours before she was due at the Heliopolis, Eliana rose from her bed and began her morning routine: stretches, food, ablutions.  
Then she stood in front of a mirror, sunlight streaming in from the open void shield, and arranged a half dozen pots of paint. She blacked her eyes and lips, then cleaned her fingers, and wrote duty upon her cheeks. There were other sigils she might have chosen—courage, strength, foresight. But she was not a soldier by trade, and she served the needs of her homeworld.

 _Duty._  It was her duty to meet this captain on the piste in the Heliopolis and champion a cause the man who had mentored her for the past month believed lost.

Anteros seemed surprised by the sight of her stretching in the sunlight, paint drying on her cheeks.  
“A ritual?” he wondered.  
“You could call it that,” Eliana admitted.  
“You didn't strike me as superstitious,” he said.  
“I'm not,” said Eliana. “It's not that kind of ritual.”  
“What is it, then?” Anteros touched her chin, turning her face upwards gently. He swiped a thumb over her cheek.  
“It means 'duty',” she told him. “Catalonians have a tradition—before we go to war, we reflect upon our reasons for waging any given battle. You've seen the Chamberlain; the generals tattoo their cheeks to show their lifelong commitment to an ideal, and they'll paint their cheeks as well for specific campaigns.”  
“Duty,” Anteros echoed.  
“Usually it's glory,” she admitted. “For exhibitions.”  
He shepherded her away from the portholes, and they stood there a moment, looking at the long shadows they cast. “Acquit yourself well, Little Heroine.”

— — — — —

The Heliopolis was a grander structure even than the amphitheater where she'd earned her laurels. She seated herself upon a bench so high her toes barely grazed the floor. From her perch, she saw the flash of a hundred cameras.  
Fulgrim sat at the head of the ring of seats, flanked by his favored. All of them wore violet robes, though behind and around him, the Emperor's Children came in their great behemoths of armor.

He rose, and all fell silent in anticipation. It seemed the whole ship held its breath.

“People of Catalonia, servants of the Imperium, today we witness a series of trials. Though the proceedings of the day are serious ones, I stand before you with gladness in my heart, for the men and women on both sides of this conflict have worked in concert and avoided the sad loss of brilliant lives. You are to be commended in that, and I salute the Chamberlain and her cabinet.  
“Ten duels. I have selected ten champions from the legion of the Emperor's Children, as the people of Catalonia have sent ten representatives to me. They duel to removal—if either participant leaves the ring or is too injured to continue, their opponent will be declared the victor. Should Catalonia win a victory today, the Twenty-Eighth Expedition will break from orbit and declare this system Protectorate Imperialis. The people of Catalonia will live in peace and the Imperium will move on and never darken this system's skies again. Should the Champions of Catalonia secure no such victories, the Chamberlain has agreed to submit membership to the Imperium and acknowledge the authority of Him-on-Earth, the Emperor of Mankind. It is my hope that these proceedings may be as civil and sporting as the negotiations that led us here today.”  
He bowed his head slightly, and this final gesture was met with applause that thundered through the amphitheater.

Eliana's heart seemed as loud in her ears, and her nutritionist sensed her nerves and laid a hand on her shoulder. She looked over at the other woman and found a smile.  
“You'll do fine,” the nutritionist said, and handed Eliana a water bottle. Eliana drank it greedily and watched the first set take the field.

— — — — — 

The duelist was relieved, in part, to have been drawn as the sixth bout. It meant she could observe half the bouts, and there was less pressure on her than the later combatants. In all her bouts with Anteros and hours besides in the ring, she had seen very little fighting like the day promised. She drank it all in and did her best to assimilate her observations.

Lord Commander Vespasian came first to the piste, opposite one of the aging State’s Swords. Vespasian’s grace and speed seemed almost preternatural when laid against the Catalonian’s more straightforward manner. Indeed, it seemed “grace” was the watchword of the Emperor’s Children: graceful in combat and gracious in manner. A Brother named Solomon Demeter, after divesting his opponent of his weapon, allowed him to retrieve it and renew their engagement. Another, called Rylanor, helped the Catalonian soldier he’d knocked from the ring regain his footing afterward. Eliana came to regret ever having dismissed them with claims of brutality.

When her turn came, Anteros helped her down from the bench, but it was her coach and her Catalonian team who flanked her as she approached the ring.

Julius Kaesoron looked like a young god, like he stepped from some Terran white-figure vase. His skin had been oiled, his hair an artfully tousled mass of sandy waves. The buckler strapped to his arm looked comically small, the wooden sword in his hand like a child's toy. He was stripped to the waist, a dozen plugs in his flesh glittering like jewelry. He was forceful in his presence, and without the tempering her duels with Anteros had provided her, she might have quailed before him.

She raised her sword in salute, and he returned the gesture. The loudspeakers overhead trilled their signal and she lifted her arms in readiness. Another blurt of sound echoed in her ears.  
Before she could draw breath, he was upon her, striking with smashing force. He tried to throw her guard open, but she swayed aside, the tip of her blade grazing his flesh as she sprinted past him, toward the centre of the ring. He came for her, and nearly trampled her but for the way she threw herself aside, rolling in the dirt and springing up with shield raised. She knocked his blow aside, the impact resounding along her arm, tingling like a thousand pinpricks.

The next blow caught her bicep, biting into her flesh. Her hand opened by instinct, though the shield was wrapped firmly to her wrist. He tried it again on the other side and she stepped in quickly, thrusting her blade into his chest. He twisted and she struck the hard plate of his interlocking ribs. He slammed his shield into her side, and she went tumbling to the dirt once more. She stayed down for only a moment, then rose to goad him into a charge.

He took the bait, and she moved laterally. He followed her a second time, and she began to hope that she could weary him, but she made it only a step before she he had herded her into a corner. She turned to face him and advanced half a step to give herself room to breathe. They traded blows then, and quick as she might be she could barely turn them aside. She rallied to press a counterattack. The First Captain brought his blade up to parry.

There was an immense crack and her sword split, shards of wood exploding into the air. She saw a wound open on his cheek, scarlet blood staining his glistening flesh. Both of them looked down at the splintered sword in her hand. She lunged for him. He smiled, the wound on his face gaping. He knocked the ruined blade from her hand, and swung for her. She brought her shield to bear, but he drove her back.

She knew the instant her foot landed that she had been pressed from the ring, and she bowed to him. He cast his blade aside, pressed his fist to his chest, and bent at the waist.

She refused to cry, though she was spent bodily and emotionally. Anteros had to pick her up and put her onto the bench.  
“Three minutes,” he said. “You did well, Little Heroine.”  
But she didn't feel any sense of pride, and even the space marine was not immune to the quiet pall that hung over Eliana and her Catalonian team.

Lord Commander Eidolon smashed the next exhibitor from the ring in a matter of seconds. He landed with a snap of bone and had to be carried away.  
Eliana lost her taste to watch after that, and bowed her head to hide the tears that threatened her eyes rather than watch the last two bouts.

Less than an hour after her own bout, the Imperium had secured Catalonia. The crowd was a roaring throng—both halves howling the cacophony of their emotions.

Eliana Ashpool stood, and with the champions still left walking, she quit the Heliopolis.

— — — — —

Anteros came to her that evening, and found her in the tub, a bottle of wine open on the tile floor. She didn't open her eyes at the sound of his heavy tread, only sank deeper into the water. Her paint had melted upon her cheeks, and there were smears of black on the neck of the bottle. He sighed, and sat down upon the floor.

“Are you alright?” he asked her.  
Eliana looked up at him. “Why should I be alright?” Eliana countered. “My future was certain until you dropped into orbit and changed the tides.”  
“You did very well, Eliana,” he said. “You did your duty.”  
“My duty was to beat you,” she told him. “My duty was to send your First Captain packing.”  
“I can count on one hand the Legionaries who could stand against Captain Kaesoron for three minutes—”  
“Should that matter to me, Anteros?” she asked, sloshing water as she reached for the wine.  
“You're peerless among mortals,” he told her.  
“Not good enough,” she said. “I lost.”  
“There's no shame in that,” Anteros told her. He pulled himself up to the tub, never so much as glancing below her shoulders.  
“Losers,” she said, “aren't given contracts. No contracts means no money. No money means I can't pay the genetors, and  _that_  means my career is over.”  
“He'll have a scar,” Anteros noted. “That's pretty rare.”  
“It won't pay my bills.”  
“Not in the Catalonia that was,” Anteros said. “Eliana…things will change.”  
“I know  _that_ ,” she spat.  
“You'd have the ear of the world's new masters, if you'd stop trying to bite it off. Listen, Little Heroine…there will be a banquet in honor of you champions. You'll be seated at the Primarch's table.”  
“Lord Fulgrim,” she said flatly.  
“Yes.”  
“Wants me to dine with him.”  
“Yes.”  
“Anteros?”  
“Yes?”  
“Will you wash my face?”  
“Another ritual, Little Heroine?”  
“Mm,” she grunted in assent, relaxing back against the porcelain. “What's he like?”  
“Lord Fulgrim?” Anteros prompted, reaching across for a soft cloth. He dipped it in the water and with surprising gentleness he washed her face. “They named him water-bearer,” he said. She laughed once, then fell back in contemplation. “Fulgrim is…like a father to all of us. Before he came to us, we were suffering. I mean Chemos, of course, but the Legion, too, on Terra. Like any father, he wants the best of us. In war and otherwise.”  
“What's Chemos like?” she asked. Anteros pressed the cloth to her lips, wiping the black from her flesh.  
“Better, since the Emperor found us. Since Fulgrim. Don't ask me what it was like before,” Anteros warned, submerging the cloth and swishing it around.  
“I won't.”  
“Things will get better here,” he promised.  
“We were happy with things as they were.”  
“I don't doubt that you were,” Anteros smiled, brushing at her cheeks. “You'll be happy with things as they will be. Trust my word on that.”

Despite everything, Eliana found that she did.  
“Ave Imperator,” she said.  
“Ave Imperator,” Anteros echoed, smiling.


End file.
